“He was great,” Dustin Pedroia [stats] said. “They have a great lineup. He threw the ball well, got deep into the game, and still had the pitch count down. He did great. It stinks that we couldn’t get it together for him.”

Manager Terry Francona laughed off the notion — “Go get ’em, Lack, because you have six starts left and then you’ll have Tommy John,’ ” he said — and added the Sox wouldn’t continue to use him if he was injured.

That’s true. It’s Lackey, people. If he had a splinter, Theo (I do believe) would force a bench. If he had a paper cut, Theo (I do believe) would force a bench. I think, I really, really think, that with that high of an ERA, the DL would be treasured.

STOP COMPLIMENTING THE SANDWICHES, PEDROIA. I cannot handle your tact. I have been drinking.

“Did that guy just come up or something? Man, because he looked pretty good to me,” Ortiz said of Worley. “He had decent stuff, and it really looks like he’s been around for a long time.

SHUT UP.

And David Ortiz, maybe… instead of complimenting a sandwich hurler, you could be… oh… I don’t know… FIGURING OUT HOW TO HIT THE DAMN BALL.

Useless. You are all USELESS.

Except for you, Youkilis. You are in my heart. BUT NOT BECAUSE OF THIS DAMN GAME.

When are we going to turn it around, hmm, Bruce? See, it was almost better in April when we were consistent bags of fail. You know. Because we didn’t know any better. The bar was already at fail. Now, we’ve experienced Stankee sweeps and regular stompings. Fail. Fail. Fail.

So we lost to the sandwiches? Big fricking deal. So we’ve lost the bulk of our last bazillion. Whatever. So we lost to the Pirates. Big whoop.

So we lost to the … to the… to THE FRICKING PADRES?

ARE YOU FRICKING KIDDING ME?????? WHAT THE HELL, TERRY FRANCONA? WHAT THE FRICKING HELL ARE YOU DOING NOT UTILIZING THE FRICKING DH? FIND SOMETHING FOR HIM TO DO, DAMNIT. YOU ARE TITO. FIX THIS. I CAN’T FIX IT FOR YOU. What the frick, Tito? You’re doing that Timlin thing. And you have to stop. BECAUSE YOU ARE MESSING WITH MY ZEN.

AND YOU, BUD SELIG!!!!!! INTERLEAGUE PLAY WILL NOT WORK AS LONG AS THERE IS THIS FRICKING DH DIVIDE. You know what Bud Selig? Maybe we SHOULD reorganize. MAYBE WE SHOULD. Of course, you don’t like to ROCK THE BOAT, do you, Bud Selig????? DO YOU??? Ahem. Steroids. Ahem. Steroids. I WILL REORGANIZE YOUR FACE.

AND YOU, JOSH BECKETT!!!! IF THAT IS YOUR REAL NAME. Because after yesterday????? I don’t know. I DO. NOT. KNOW. I want you to find where you and Dice stashed that time machine and I want you to get the frick in it and find yourself when you KNEW HOW TO SHUT OUT GAMES. It does not take a ROCKET SCIENTIST (pun FRICKING intended) to know that you were OFF YOUR FRICKING GAME. That was not the stomach flu. And if it was, CLEARLY you are not better. CLEARLY you should have been a wee bit more honest in our pre-game chats and people are all… OH BECKETT… RUNNING WITH THE BAT… Poor AL pitcher baby. But you and I BOTH KNOW you can be a badass with the bat. We have BOTH seen it. Oh, you’re mad about the game? You’re going to stomp off with mad-face to anger-ville? GOOD. GET MAD. You better get good and fricking mad because the All Star Break is coming and LACKEY is still in the rotation and CLAY keeps getting fricking blisters and there is something wrong with Lester and the kid hasn’t been tested and JENKS IS BACK… so we’re going to be counting on YOU to NOT SUCK. Comprende? Get your wife to translate.

AND YOU, ACEVES. I WILL NEVER FORGET HOW WE LOST TO THE FRICKING PADRES. NEVER. This is your fault for being a demotivator. You’re an anti-cheerleader. Limp like the PASTA DISH IMPLIED BY YOUR NAME, ALFREDO. And don’t think I forgot about you, JOHN LACKEY. Oh no, you Dirk-armed sloth creature. But you know what, John Lackey? This isn’t your fault. NONE OF THIS IS YOUR FAULT. I BLAME TITO. See, Terry Francona? He watches the games I watch. He can smell your failure from the dugout and he KEEPS PUTTING YOU ON THE FRICKING MOUND. What. The. Hell??????? There comes a time when you need to eat your losses. EAT THEM. Stuff your face with them. Write passive aggressively and tearfully in your journal, Tito, have a good cry and MOVE THE FRICK ON.

I can’t do this. I have to work. I have to support myself so I can afford lunch at Lackey’s ERA.

Dear Tito,

WHY?

Inconsolably yours,

Lauren

———————————————————————–

Youkie-poo,

Okay, baby. Clearly Tito is broken. Clearly it is up to us now. You and me. We can only count on each other, baby. But I’ve got to be honest with you, Youk. I’m starting to think you don’t read this. Do you have any idea how many people call my faith in you “blind”? Two. Two whole people.

See, I love you. You know I do. But I’m starting to think you don’t love me. Because if you did love me, Youkie. If you did, really and truly love me, you’d take on some sort of leadership. You’d fix this! Tek? He’s transitioning. Okay? He’s not there every game. But you! You wield that bat almost every time.

It’s up to us, Youk. You and me. But I can’t do it alone. Cheerleaders, you see, can do nothing unless the players take the initiative. With a questionable rotation and bullpen, the nation needs you to rally on offense. Get Skippy to help. Go. Go. I know you hate good byes. So I’ll leave you with a beach photo from Ocean Isle, NC, currently serving as my computer background.

That was horrible. We were just sandwich smacked. WE BARELY GOT OUT ALIVE.

It was an exploding, rotten sandwich, with icky mayonnaise sauce, coming out from everywhere like lava. This game was a mayonnaise sandwich of ultimate catastrophe.

My feelings can best be expressed through the following clip from the classic 1976 movie “Network,” starring Faye Dunnaway, William Holden and Peter Finch.

And YES. You have to watch the WHOLE THING.

If you want to see the play-by-play torture, scroll down for drunken ramblings. In the meantime, DO WHAT THE VIDEO CLIP SAYS.

LET’S GET MAD, PEOPLE! I am a human being! My life has value!

Get up out of your chairs. Get to the window. Open it. Stick your head out and yell, “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take this anymore!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

I CAN’T HEAR YOU! And if I can’t hear you, HOW IS TITO GOING TO HEAR YOU????

PS- Tomorrow we start a new campaign. PUT LACKEY ON THE DL. Because I can’t take this tomorrow too.

Conclusions I have drawn from this game? The Red Sox are afraid of the letter “P.”

PS- You KNOW you are in trouble when Beckett is on the “what went wrong” list and BOBBY JENKS is on the “what went right” list. God help us all.

—————-

—————-

New bar. Get here 6th inning.

Yeah. I saw that.

All of that.

Why Josh? Why?

Adding to my frustration, sandwich game is on a television that is smaller than my computer. It takes me 20 minutes (and I COUNT) to get one of the 12+ big people televisions on the game. They are watching the Florida-South Carolina game. ON EVERY TELEVISION. Really? REALLY????

So, by the time I get my computer out to fake work and really blog- it’s the bottom of the 7th. I cannot talk about the evils that I saw in the 6th. No. I cannot.

And now this Morales guy is stressing me the frick out.

So, new bar. Closer to where I live. Farther from Boone. I think I’m in… *gasp* local territory.

Clearly, I am the only one in here with a job.

Does that sound judgmental? I do try not to be judgmental.

Okay, Morales. We’re cool. 9:05 p.m.

—

Okay. This big people tv is pissing me off too. It has all these little sparkly flaws in the screen. Is that what not-HD is like? I am going to do the bar dance. I see it. All. Around. The. Bar. The strange bar. Where I know no one. And I really think that guy’s drink is really a tobacco spittoon. Ew. Ew-ew-ew.

Make. It. Stop.

My bartender has to be seventeen. Has to be. Seriously.

—

Wow. Just got a phone call from a really sweet guy I haven’t talked to in like a year. Because he moved. It was clearly a pocket dial. But how sweet to pretend he was calling to check up on me.

—

NO. I DO NOT WANT A PBR. I AM DRINKING A SAM ADAMS! SEE? IF I NEEDED ANOTHER DRINK, I WOULD NOT BE PORING OVER MY COMPUTER DOING FAKE WORK AND WATCHING A GAME.

This. This is called AVOIDING EYE CONTACT WITH YOU.

—

I think this was a bar fail. Hi, McDonald. 9:11. That strike hurt my soul.

—

AND another thing. There are subtitles. Which is smarmy keen, really. Except that I can’t see any stats. Or anything, really.

—

Hmmm. Maybe that wasn’t a pocket dial.

But probably.

I am conflicted.

—

You know. My mother (the mother that wants me to marry Reddick and not my soulmate Kevin Youkilis) says I should never go to bars alone. Of course not, I say.

—

Jason Varitek. He looks good today.

Oh, and a close up of Kevin Youkilis. Not while Tek is batting, kids, you’ll distract me! The way the stadium just glistens off his bald head.

But also about how kickass awesome the Sox offense is. Seriously. WHERE IS THAT?

Padres. Pirates. Phillies.

OHMYGOD. We have something against the letter “P.” I will drink another beer and analyze this revelation privately. Perhaps on a napkin. 9:16. One out. Top of the 8th. Rallyin’ time. Right? Right?

—

STOP TALKING ABOUT JAMES SHIELDS!!!! THIS IS A BOSTON GAME.

—-

The subtitle gods can’t spell.

Why are you even playing? You’re like an insta-out!!!!!!! CAMERON! Add a del- before your name and call you loser.

You heard me.

—

Not even my Boston beer can save us now.

—-

9:19. Scut. Fricktastic. 2 outs.

—

DAMN YOU, SCUT. 9:20.

—

Okay. When a girl is yelling at a television screen and throwing coasters, DO NOT APPROACH HER. Tell your friends.

—-

I am using the commercial break to analyze this guy’s jellyfish tattoo. I asked him if I could take a picture of it so you could analyze it too (I didn’t tell him I would put it on the internet) and he was like “no.” He doesn’t seem to want to talk to me. He’d rather spit into a cup.

I am delightful, I say. Not only should you want to talk to me, you should be astounded and honored that I want to take a picture of your tattoo.

He opens his mouth to speak.

SHHH. The game is back on.

Some people.

—

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Bobby Fricking Jenks.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Well, now that I’ve alienated everyone around me…

—

Okay. Out 1. You didn’t do that Jenks. That was god. Don’t get cocky.

Why????? Is John Lackey really going to pitch tomorrow? Really-really? Are you sure he’s not going to get on the DL? Maybe he’s already there and I just don’t know it. You’d tell me, right? You’d tell me?

Cameron- is that a tattoo on your neck? Remind me to google that later.

Is it just me or did Jenks trim his stupid goattee a bit? How do you spell goatee? Oh.

—

Yeah. Strike three. Sit the frick down.

Yeah, I don’t know if that was a strike either. But I’m sure you deserved that call. You know, for being a bad person or something.

—-

9:27. Chase Utley. You look painfully normal. Bobby Jenks. Sigh.

WHAT WAS THAT, JENKS? Did the baseball dirt LOOK like a catcher’s mitt?

Excuse me, random guy at bar? WHAT THE HELL DOES IT LOOK LIKE I’M WATCHING?

Okay. I’m wearing a Fenway t-shirt and a sour disposition. WHO DO YOU THINK I’M ROOTING ON? Look. I can’t be expected to answer your stupid questions.

Did you see that? That was my husband. MY HUSBAND. Thanks, Youk. Bobby Jenks, you should kiss his shoes.

—–

We have really Posada-ed ourselves, haven’t we?

—-

2 outs. One on first. There is no sound. I am so confused about these mystery calls.

I feel like Youkie and I are playing our own private game of baseball charades.

The guy behind me has really big teeth. I’m just saying.

Hi, Jason Varitek.

I don’t think they’re real.

The teeth. Not Jason Varitek.

I should give this guy gum or something. You know. As a test.

Anyone have any gum?

—-

9:32. “A full cout,” subtitle says. I think you mean COUNT.

Cout Dracula. Ahahahahaha.

Time for another beer.

NOW I’m ready for that PBR. Thanks.

—-

My name? Argentina. Argentina Jones. I’m a mathematician, you see. Solving mysteries through math. Like in 3-2-1 Count Down and that show called “Numbers.”

Of course I’m being serious.

Your name? Kip? Seriously?

Don’t laugh, Lauren. That’s rude.

—-

Yeah. Bar fail. It is the bottom of the 8th. STILL. TWO ON BASE (THANKS, JENKS). 9:35. TWO OUTS.

—

Hi, FDA. I’m glad you’re out there somewhere. Like in Fievel. Commenting from afar but looking at the same moon. Except it’s not a moon. It’s Bobby fricking Jenks.

Josh Beckett makes my soul cry.

Now, I don’t know what happened. I was doing that job thing. So maybe they said something to you, Beckett. Maybe they insulted rocket scientists or something. I don’t know. But I’d like an essay, at least 5 paragraphs, on my desk TOMORROW, explaining exactly what happened and how you sure as frick won’t let it happen again.

Don’t worry, guys. The world is horrible. I’m sure he’ll get his money.

While hilarious, awkward, awful and embarrassing to the sport of baseball (all at the same time, mind you), this does accomplish something quite irritating. It brings Scott Boras’ name back into the news:

Really, don’t let Manny troubles pull at your heartstrings, all you Manny sympathizers. He still gets a check, regardless of whether he gets anything out of this McCourt drama. Your favorite hormone pusher will be just fine. And we all know it’s going to be fine. The money will be paid. The headlines will irritate us for a little while and then they (like YOU Manny) will fade into obscurity.

SAD, SAD, SAD.

Is it just me or does Manny needle his way into every baseball controversy?

It breaks hearts of people who USED to call him the Man. Every time I see his name I think about how steroids cheapen the sport. Seriously. Now I’m in a cranky mood and we have sandwiches to slay. Thanks, Frank McCourt. Thanks a lot.

If we weren’t a team that balked exclusively to unpressure, I’d be nervous.

The real pressure’s on Beckett, who just came out of a shut out. He’ll be pitching, conveniently, against another person who just came out of a shut out: Cliff Lee.

See, I like Cliff. Why? Because he didn’t go to the Yankees. And he turned down a wad of cash. See, Johnny, some people can do that. And he has a comic book name. Really. I can see it now: The Base Loader (insert theme music here), aka: Cliff Lee…

A girl can dream.

But really, I like the Phillies. They don’t irritate me like SOME teams (ahem, Angels. ahem, Braves). So I hope it’s us versus them in October. Best versus the best.

The things the internet teaches you. Like that thing about porcupines and their ability to float. Who fricking knew?

But I digress…

Speaking of Tito, he’s not “expecting a parade.” Such dramatic sandwiches they are. Whatever. Back to the ace.

This game could put Beckett at a Pedro-level era.

I think this is going to be one of those games that comes down to the bull pen. And, if we were playing a team of losers, that would terrify me. But, my we-only-suck-to-suckies theory is something I’m quite confident in… you’ll see. Because the sandwiches are arrogant. Their fans are annoying (Call me a kettle and I’ll put hot steam in your eye), but they are not sucky.

So, scouting through the Red Sox site today and noticed a new, fun facet! Auctions! Was looking at all of the Red Sox things I can’t afford and found a hilarious statistic. 0 percent of John Lackey merchandise is selling. This Lackluster chair hast been up for bids since June 15. Apparently, people think his negativity can be passed from derriere to derriere. Fascinating.

The Lackey DL watch continues…

—-

And, if you want a Red Sox-free read about our favourite Bud Selig‘s exaggerated relevance, my blogger pal Jup has a doozy of a rant today, one that I thoroughly enjoyed. Check it out here.